


All roads lead to Qohor

by obsessivewriter



Series: Qohor [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Blacksmithing, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Search For Identity, Tattoos, exes to friends and back to lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-26 11:35:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21373492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessivewriter/pseuds/obsessivewriter
Summary: Arya goes West to find what there is at the edge of the world, while Gendry gives two years to his lordship, and then finally heads East to learn Qohorik smithing secrets. Fate would have that if you go far enough West, and far enough East you are bound to meet.When they meet, Gendry invites Arya to stay at his place, while she sorts herself out. In the end, she doesn't leave, and they find their way to becoming friends again, they finally talk about all the things left unsaid between them, and they explore the secrets of Qohor, The City of Sorcerers.
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters
Series: Qohor [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605601
Comments: 124
Kudos: 322





	All roads lead to Qohor

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there, I don't know how but I managed to write this. 
> 
> All the made-up Qohorik language can be translated if you hover over the text.
> 
> In case you can't get the translation as hover over text, I'll add a short vocab at the end.

[ ](https://imgur.com/Q9vujov)

**1 **

Of all the possible places to find him again, it had happened there, in Qohor, the very evening Arya had arrived. She was on her way to the inn recommended to her on the road from the port where the _Nymeria_ docked and where she bid farewell to her crew. Arya had hitched a ride on a trader's carriage, along with other travelers. Only one, among them, spoke Braavosi, and he had recommended a guesthouse where she could stay once she reached Qohor, hearing that she intended to remain a few moons. 

Arya had found the bazaar easily, but instead of crossing it as she had been directed, she had found herself mesmerized by the colors and smells of products brought from all over Essos. She ambled the labyrinth of stalls, unconcerned as no one was expecting her. The air smelled of aromatic woods and spices, laced with the acrid scent of blood, spilled on the ground from the daily sacrifices. The sun was still shining, but it wouldn't be too long until it set, and the vendors were busy haggling with the customers who wanted to take advantage of the dwindling day, sure they'd be willing to sell their goods at cost to lighten their load going home. 

She noticed, among the wandering children of the market, a smiling girl that despite the physical differences, could have been Arya Underfoot, as she ducked under tables and displays, and greeted every merchant. The girl would turn sporadically to give Arya a broad smile, knowing she was being followed, and just as she would chase behind stray cats in the Red Keep, Arya trailed up and down the unending aisles of the Qohorik bazaar. It was her that had led her to the place where she would find him when the girl's mother had yelled and dragged her by the hand, reciting an unintelligible litany. Despite the woman speaking in a foreign tongue, it could have easily been what Catelyn Tully used to say to her, pulling her home for a bath and supper. 

After the girl with the smile was out of sight, she had turned, and the very first thing that caught her attention was the broad shoulders under pale-colored breathable Qohorik attire: a short-sleeved long tunic, over loose breeches of the same cloth. The strong arms reminded her of other ones, wrapped around her in a long and dark night, convincing her that she still had ties to this world. The man in front of her even had the same leather wrist cuffs, and his hair was shorn like his had been in Winterfell. It was the same coal color but over a neck that looked unnaturally red from standing too long under the sun. Arya shook her head, trying to dispel the mirage, surely brought by her loneliness and the longing for another man that she was sure was thousands of leagues away.

She would have turned around and left if it hadn't been for the rumbling laughter from her memories, sprung easily from the man who was still looking away from her, talking with a vendor, mixing Qohorik words and the common tongue. 

It was no mirage.

A sound that was suspiciously close to a sob broke in her chest as she found herself getting closer, an imperative pushing her to see a face she had not expected to find all the way in Essos. 

A sudden fear made her throat close up as if invisible hands were squeezing her neck. She needed to know if someone from her past was wearing his face.

Arya approached the man, noticing that he was the right height and that he smelled of the exotic scent of Essos mixed with a hint of leather, ash, and soap. Standing right behind him, while he was still oblivious, her hand stretched to touch the point behind his ear, where the hinge of his jaw rested, looking for a bump or a small flap. She didn't find anything, just the same strong jaw from her past. Then, the grip of his calloused fingers on her wrist pulled her hand back, forcing her to stand in front of him. 

The scowl was as she remembered it from their youth in the Riverlands, for his face had always been soft for her in Winterfell. He had gone from furious to shocked, and then vacant as if something had stopped working inside. Arya suspected her face mirrored his, but the vendor clearing his throat broke the spell.

"Close your mouth, or people will think you're stupid," Arya said, trying to fall into old habits, but he didn't take the bait.

"I thought you had gone west."

"I did, for a while," she admitted, "I thought you had gone east, to Storm's End."

"I did, for a while," he replied, echoing her words, "stayed there as long as I could bear it, and then I went further east."

"The world is round," she was quick to explain, "and if you go far enough west…"

"And you go far enough east…" he continued.

"We were bound to meet."

Gendry shook his head and looked down at his sandal-clad feet. 

"I was sure I would never see you again," he confessed to the ground under his feet.

"I told my siblings that I wouldn't be coming back, but I guess I always hoped one day I would meet you again."

"Does this live up to your expectations?" He asked.

"Never imagined it would happen in Essos."

Gendry opened his mouth to ask where she had imagined they'd meet again but changed his mind once he realized he wasn't sure he would like the answer. It was then that he noticed Itamo, the tea merchant, who he had just been chatting with after bringing him back the old kettle he had asked him to mend, watching them with profound interest. 

"Where are you staying?" He asked, instead.

"I was on my way there, Aloro's guesthouse."

At the mention of a name that Gendry knew well, Itamo gave a low whistle and turned his back to them, pretending to tidy up the baskets full of tea and spices behind him.

"You're not staying there," he warned her, as his face turning back into a scowl.

"Excuse me?" She asked, and he recognized the flicker of anger in her eyes.

"I mean, it is your decision where you decide to stay," he said, rubbing the freshly shaven face, "I stayed there myself when I first arrived. The first night I woke up to one of Aloro's men standing by the bed with a knife surely about to dispatch me to the next life and another one trying to rob me blindly."

"You've always slept too deeply," Arya mocked.

Gendry gave a hollow laugh, and taking a deep breath, he continued.

"Just because I used to sleep too deeply next to you doesn't mean I always do. If my sleep had been deep that night, I wouldn't be but a memory of yours."

Arya listened while Gendry looked away from her, and she wondered if he was referencing the nights on the King's Road or that one atop some lumpy sacks of grain in the North, the same one that still made her ache in her heart and between her legs. Or mayhaps he was referencing the other less than a handful of times she had found her way to his cot and slept alongside him and left before he woke. 

"My sleep is light enough when I'm on my own," he explained, "and that night, I woke up before they slit my throat and kept my coin. So, you would understand why I'd be less than enthusiastic to know you plan to stay at Aloro's. Everyone knows not to stay at Aloro's, _al-nek_, Itamo?" He asked in Qohorik, turning to the merchant, who simply shook his head and made a dismissive gesture with his hand, that despite its foreignness, was enough for Arya to understand.

"Alright, then, I need to find a place to stay."

"It'll be dark soon," Gendry pointed out, "you can stay at my place and sort yourself out in the morning."

"Fine then, my lord, lead the way."

"I'm not far. Do you have all your stuff with you?"

"I travel light, this is all I got," Arya replied, signaling to the bundle she carried, strapped to her back.

"Then let's go, we can get something to eat on the way."

  
2

They stopped at a couple of stalls before leaving the bazaar, picking up different foods for their supper. Gendry seemed well-liked by some of the vendors, who handed him exotic fruits and some sort of odd flatbread wrapped in colorful pieces of cloth. An older woman with tattoos on her high cheekbones, eyed Arya warily as she handed Gendry what she could only think was a small block of cheese. She then looked back at him and smiled, placing her hand on his cheek and later on his forehead, as she said some words that sounded solemn.

"What was that?"

"A blessing," Gendry replied, keeping his eyes forward.

"You are a popular man."

"I wasn't always. I was lucky enough that some Qohorik accepted me, like Umayma, that was her back there with the cheese, and Itamo. But even after all the time I've been here, I am still outsider scum for plenty locals," he explained as he led her out of the bazaar.

They didn't have to walk long after leaving the market when they arrived at a small two-story dwelling. There was an outer staircase that led to the top floor without having to go through the lower level.

"Nice place Baratheon, two stories?"

"The forge downstairs and my room upstairs. Not too much, maybe more than I used to have in King's Landing," he said as he led her up the stairs and into his home. Once inside the sleeping quarters, she noticed that the room was modest, there was a high table against the wall, it held a small looking glass, a jug of water, and a basin. On the other side, there were colorful cushions on the floor and a short table. At the back of the room, there was an entryway to a smaller chamber, no door separated the areas, but a sheer curtain that hung from the arch, and though it, she could see a bed in the back. 

"Plenty of room for a Westerosi blacksmith, but too modest for the lord of Storm's End. What happened?"

"Contrary to what you may have thought, a lordship and a castle weren't dreams of mine," he said, taking off his sandals and placing them by the door, and then setting the parcels with the food on the short table. 

"Why not?" Arya asked, as she took off the bundle with her belongings and let them fall to the floor, along with her boots.

"Was a ladyship your life-long dream?" He asked, turning back to look at her as he sat down on one of the cushions and leaned against the wall. He then signaled for her to do the same. 

"No," she replied, sitting down. 

"Then, you know."

"It's different."

"Why?"

"You get choices."

"I was there for two years, and very few things were up to my choice."

Arya remained silent, choosing not to inquire more about his experience in Storm's End. 

"We should eat. I have a bit of wine, but I should warn you that it's not very good, or we could have water."

"Water is fine."

Gendry unwrapped the foods he got from the bazaar, and they ate in silence, both of them focusing on the simple meal in front of them, but taking furtive glances at each other until Arya couldn't contain herself anymore and started laughing.

"Do I have something on my face?" He asked as he palmed his face worriedly.

"No," Arya replied, shaking her head.

"Then, what is so funny?"

"You and this table. You look like a giant."

"Funny, but now that you mention it, I guess this table is just the right size for your tiny body."

"I'm not that tiny. You are just abnormally tall."

"Whatever you say, m'lady."

"You've been dying to say it, haven't you?" She said as she narrowed her eyes.

"It's the small pleasures," he replied with a shrug.

"Anyway, how did you end up leaving Storm's End? You just upped and fucked off? Left the Stormlanders to fend for themselves?"

"Not exactly, after two years of working the lands and fixing what my cunt of an uncle broke, I decided to go after something I actually loved."

"Coming to Qohor to become a master smith was your heart's desire?"

"Maybe the second," he replied, looking down, "anyway, I wanted to come here, learn something I didn't know," he continued, trying to distract Arya from he had said without thinking.

"What happened to Storm's End?"

"I left it to my brother."

"You don't have a brother."

"Well, it turns out I do have one. Edric Storm. Raised at Storm's End and sent here to Essos during the wars."

"All your life you wanted a family, how come you didn't want to stay with him?"

"I guess I learned family is not just blood-bound. You left yours."

Arya wondered if that last bit had meant to sting, but his eyes were calm, like the ocean when the Nymeria had been stranded by the lack of winds.

"Sometimes, you need to leave, even when you're leaving those you love behind."

Gendry simply smirked, and he swallowed the bitterness that he tasted in his mouth.

"And the Qohorik," Arya spoke, trying to change the conversation, "they just accepted you and shared their smithing secrets with you?"

"Not even close, I almost got sacrificed to the Black Goat."

"At Aloro's?"

"No, this was after that."

"How many times have you almost died here?"

"Two, so far. I could tell you about the second one, though I really have no idea how long you are staying.”

Gendry had to look away, not to betray his fear of Arya disappearing as abruptly as she had shown up in his path.

“I don’t have a definite plan, but I don’t foresee leaving any time soon. I’ve been at sea for so long that I’m looking forward to standing on firm land for a while.”

“Why did you go west?"

“To find what lays where the maps end. At least that was the official story.”

“What was the real one?”

“To find me.”

“And what did you find?"

“No One,” Arya took a moment to think and continued, “I did find some scattered islands. Some uninhabited, some inhabited, but not a significant landmass.”

“Did you have any brushes with death?”

“I was almost thrown overboard by my crew once, but I think you beat me on this particular race."

"Will you tell me about it?"

"When you tell me yours.”

"I look forward to that," Gendry replied with a wink.

"One day, I thought we had finally found significant land, but all that we had found was Mossovy and the Grey Waste. Turns out, I got to Essos the long way round. I sent ravens to Bran to inform him."

"There are ravens that can travel that far and from unknown lands?"

"There are if your brother is the Three-Eyed Raven."

"Cheater."

"Anyway, we decided to follow the coast northbound, and we docked in The Axe. I sent my crew back to King's Landing with my maps and notes and decided to explore more of Essos since I lived in Braavos for years, and I never traveled anywhere."

"Why Qohor? I mean, I know why I am here, but why would you want to start here and not Volantis or Pentos?"

"Because it is the most exotic city in Essos."

"You mean to say because it is the most dangerous one. I know you, Stark."

"Are you criticizing my choice to come here despite the danger—"

"I didn't mean despite, I meant because of the danger."

Arya rolled her eyes.

"…when you have been almost killed two times."

"So far," he added.

"So far. Great. So how come the Qohorik are sharing their secrets with you when Maester Pol was almost killed trying to figure out their secrets? If I remember what Bran used to tell me correctly, they took his hand for trying to steal their secrets. You, on the other hand, seem to be in one piece," she added, blatantly checking him out.

"They were not excited to share their secrets with me," He commented, smiling at the way she had been eying him, "and as a matter of fact, that was the second time I almost died here."

"What happened?"

"I went to the blacksmiths guild, and like the idiot you've always known me to be, I asked to be let in, and become their apprentice."

"It didn't go well."

"It did not. They almost killed me that day."

"How did you escape?"

"I didn't. I fought as much as I could, but there were too many. They bent me over the altar where they make the sacrifices, and they cleared my neck. I thought that was it, and at that moment, I laughed, knowing I had left a cozy featherbed for that."

Gendry took a moment, letting his memories replay in his head. He didn't tell her, but when he was sure he would be meeting death soon, the only thing clear in his head was Arya's face: mud-stained Arry with her wide smile, impeccable Lady Stark showing up at the forge in Winterfell demanding a weapon, the bleeding face of the hero of Westeros, the lovely bruised face of the woman he wanted as his wife as he called her beautiful, and Arya, arousal tinting her cheeks pink, eyes closed and lips parted, above him, while she rode him. 

He shook his head to dispel the risky memories and continued. 

"Then I remembered Tobho Mott and the prayer he made me repeat every day before work. He said we needed to ask for the gods' permission to work the steel. I never understood what it meant, but I repeated it so many times it was branded in my brain. It was Qohorik, that much I knew and nothing more. I never believed in the gods, but as I was just about to die, I thought it was as good as any prayer, and so I started reciting it. They let go of me immediately."

"Because of a prayer?"

"Because of _the_ prayer. Turns out, that it is a prayer that a Qohorik blacksmith teaches his son before sharing with him how to work the steel. It is a sacred prayer, not to the Westerosi gods, but to the Black Goat. A blacksmith offers him the hard work of his hands, produced only for his glory."

Gendry looked back at Arya, to find curious wide-eyed Arry, listening to his story as if under a spell.

"You can't become a blacksmith just because you want to," he continued, "it has to be your birthright. And becoming an apprentice demands taking vows, to protect the secrets shared with you."

"Tobho taught you a prayer that he was meant to teach his own son," Arya declared, understanding the weight of his words.

"Aye."

"How do you feel about it?"

"You mean about me hating the man for years because he sold me to the Night's Watch without any sort of regard, or the fact that he did it without thinking for a second that I was his best apprentice, only to realize now, when he's dead that, not only Tobho very likely did it to protect me, but that he taught me a prayer so sacred he was only supposed to teach it to his own son? Just as bad as you would imagine."

His words surprised not only Arya but Gendry himself. This was the first time he had allowed himself to explore his feelings in the matter.

"You could look at the bright side."

"There is a bright side?"

"He taught it to you, and he cared enough to save you, and…"

"And?"

"One day, you could teach that prayer to a child of yours."

"Ah," Gendry said, rubbing the back of his neck, and he looked away, making Arya feel her stomach tightening, realizing the implication.

"I don't think I will ever have any children," he finally said.

Arya was surprised for her need to comfort him, but she felt glued to the place where she sat. Her hand itching to touch his, just a few inches away from her on the table.

"Though," he finally said, "I could always find an orphan apprentice, just like Tobho did with me."

Arya only nodded, lacking the confidence in her voice, not breaking if she said something.

They had remained silent for a while until Arya's yawn broke the silence.

"You can take my bed," he said as he got up, pointing to it, through the sheer curtain.

"And where will you be sleeping?" She asked in return, getting up and picking up the remains of their meal. 

"Out here," he replied, looking back to the room where they had eaten.

"On the floor?"

"I have these," Gendry explained, motioning for the colorful cushions, clearly too small for his size.

"Don't be stupid."

"According to you, I cannot avoid it." 

"Are you being serious?" She asked in disbelief.

"About my guest having a place to sleep? Yes."

By now, they were both showing signs of frustration, both their arms coming up and down abruptly, Arya's eyes rolling, and Gendry rubbing his beard in frustration.

"You are really not going to consider the alternative, are you?"

"Me taking the bed and leaving you to sleep on the hard floor? No."

"It's the hard floor if it's me, but it is not so bad if it is for you?"

"I'm used to sleeping on the floor."

"I know! I used to sleep on it next to you!" She berated him.

"Things are different."

"Because I'm grown?"

"Because you are a princess."

"In name only."

"You are to me."

"And the other alternative?"

"No," He flat out refused.

"You and I, of all people, shouldn't have a problem sharing a bed."

"You and I should have never shared a bed to start," he said, looking away.

Those words stung Arya as they landed, despite knowing she had rejected him as well, but the idea that he may regret their times together hurt worse than fear.

"If you are worried about my social status, this is Essos, and they don't care shit about me being a lady. And if you are worried about my honor, I do not need to remind you that the ship has already sailed."

"Those are not the things that concern me," he said, looking back, with that sad smile that incensed Arya, with the implication that there was something he knew and that she could never understand. 

He could feel his mood starting to become foul, it infuriated him that she could not understand what it would mean to him to have her so close. 

"If you are going to be this stupid, I rather try my luck at Aloro's," she finally said, going for her boots to put them back on, but she was quickly stopped by Gendry, who held on to her wrist for a fraction of a second. So brief the contact was that Arya doubted it had actually happened.

"Don't."

"Why can't you understand that I do not want you to sleep on the floor because of me."

"Why would you care so much about my comfort?"

"When will you acknowledge the fact that you are important to me?"

"Fine!"

"What?"

"We can share my bed."

They slept back to back, facing away from each other. Gendry kept waking up, having to look back to make sure she was still there, that he hadn't dreamed it all. But she was, there, as if conjured out of thin air. He had slept next to her plenty of times before, but she was no longer Arry, the little girl pretending to be a boy who slept huddled with him for warmth, her back to his front, her little body molding perfectly to his. She wasn't the Arya who had given him her maidenhead in a storeroom in Winterfell, the very last night they should have had in the world, naked against his skin and under his cloak. What she was still was the love of his life, the stupid dream of a bastard boy who wanted her to be his, a desire as futile as wanting to own the air he breathed. 

They had undressed looking away from each other, Gendry leaving only his smallclothes on, and Arya going to sleep in her tunic. When he woke, the next morning, he was still facing towards the window, and away from her, but she seemed to have wrapped herself around him, and he was painfully aware that her bare breasts were against his naked back. 

He stayed there, as still as he could, until he felt her wake up, the peaceful rhythm of her breathing picking up, and the pressure to his back disappearing. 

"Good morning," she greeted him.

"Good morning," he replied, turning back, and catching just a glimpse of the side of her breast. He turned quickly feeling guilty, but Arya seemed unfazed by the fact that Gendry could feel her bare breasts on his back, and then that he could stare at her. He felt her getting up from the bed and the sound of her putting her clothes back on. 

"Nights are too hot here," she explained, "how can you wear anything to bed?"

"I normally don't," he replied, "and you should keep your clothes on."

3

Gendry had been eager to show her his forge, and as soon as they were up and about, he led her downstairs. He wasn't able to hide the pride he felt as he opened the heavy wooden doors and the slight trepidation as Arya started looking around, picking up pieces of steel and tools from his workbenches. 

One of the pieces she lifted to appraise carefully was a deep blue-hued breastplate. 

"Tinted steel, you really have gotten better."

The comment caught him unprepared, and he couldn't stop himself from feeling bashful.

"You should have seen my first attempts, they were hideous. Adding color to steel is one of the things Qohor smiths are famous for, but it is rather superficial. It doesn't add any benefits to the steel, beyond giving a knight or a lordling something else for the maidens to swoon over."

"Why did you want to learn how to make it then?"

"To bring in coin to keep me experimenting."

"Is that how you make your living?"

"No, it will help when I go back to Westeros… if I go back. Here I do everything, household wares, shoeing horses, if it's made of metal and you got the coin, I make it."

"Do you know how to make Valyrian steel yet?" She asked rather bluntly, placing the plate back on the table and turning to face him. 

"Depends."

"On what?"

"On what is Valyrian steel."

"So, what is it?"

"How would you describe it?"

Arya took a moment to think of _Ice_, to picture her father, sitting under the heart tree, cleaning their family's heirloom sword. 

"It never dulls, it is lightweight and has a water ripple pattern. It comes from Old Valyria."

"If Valyrian steel is only the steel from Old Valyria, then no, no one could ever make new Valyrian steel ever again."

"How about the rest?"

"The rest is doable," he replied as he donned his leather apron, "one could accomplish each characteristic separately. I could have in King's Landing or in Storm's End, no need to come all the way here for that."

"But you came here."

"Aye. I remember seeing fake Valyrian steel swords when I had my own shop in King's Landing. Swords made to have the water ripple pattern. Heavy as lead, and that would dull slicing an apple," he continued, as he squatted to get the fires going.

"So no blacksmith secrets yet?"

"I wouldn't say that."

"Then?"

"To start, I didn't come here announcing that I meant to learn their secrets, or that I wanted to learn to rework Valyrian steel, let alone forge it from scratch. I'm stupid, but not that stupid."

"What did you come here to learn then?"

"I came here to learn to smith as Qohorik smiths do, nothing more and nothing less."

"Clever."

Gendry smirked at the compliment, "careful there m'lady, or I'll get used to your praise."

"Idiot."

"Aye, that's more like the Stark I know."

Arya placed her hands on the bench behind her and lifted herself to sit on it while she watched Gendry working the bellows to feed the flames. She knew this bit would take time since she had watched him plenty in the past to know that getting to making the steel sing took a lot of effort and time. 

After a long while of watching him work in silence, she spoke, "tell me something you've learned since being here."

"Fire. The biggest secret to smithing is fire."

"Sounds stupid," Gendry grinned, looking up to see her.

"Any idiot can melt things, but it's not the same to melt ore slowly or almost instantly. Fire is the difference between firm, flexible, or brittle. You need good ore and a way to burn out the impurities, but without good flames, you got nothing."

"So, you need bigger muscles to work the bellows and make Valyrian steel?"

"No, the lore is that you need dragon fire."

She couldn't avoid flinching, her mind may have been trained, but her skin still felt the heat and the ash as if it had been only the day before. 

"I rather live in a world without any more Valyrian steel then."

"I don't disagree," he replied, looking at her, and still wondering what the sacking had meant to her.

"Is it a lost cause, then?"

"No, there are other techniques to produce hotter flames in less time and a lot of opportunities to develop new ones."

"How do you produce hotter fire without dragons?"

"Using better things to feed your fires than coal. I use coke, you can produce it in airless kilns, but it's not an easy process."

"I came here because it is supposed to be the city of sorcerers. The rumors are that Qohorik smiths use blood magic to reforge Valyrian steel. What you are telling me sounds boring in comparison."

"Ah, yes, that's another secret."

"Don't tell me that you just explained all that about techniques, and yet you secret is that you add blood to your steel."

Gendry laughed then.

"Aye. The blood magic. Rest assured, I do not believe in blood magic, but…"

"What?"

"You have to wonder if it is superstition or if there is something in blood, in whatever makes blood be blood, that helps the process. Here," Gendry said as he brought a medium-sized cast iron cauldron to the workbench in between where he stood, and the one where she was perched.

"People believe there is magic in king's blood."

"Is there?" Aryas asked as she saw Gendry place several pieces of ore into the cauldron.

"If there were, is it because the gods have chosen ones? Are kings special? Lineages that are meant to rule over others? If Robert had never rebelled and become king, would my blood be any different? Did Robert's blood suddenly become magical when he killed Rhaegar? When he sat on the Iron Throne? How about your own blood?"

"What about it?"

"You are the sister to three kings and a queen. Your blood ought to be a lot more magical than mine.”

"You are mocking me."

"I am not. Not only your siblings became kings and queen, but if I remember anything from my lessons in Storm's End, you also come from the kings and queens in the north, and the Starks are one of the oldest houses in Westeros. If there is magic in blood, there should be more than plenty running through your veins."

"You seem to know a lot about House Stark," she said, raising one brow, "it's a bit strange that your education in the Stormlands centered so much on us Starks."

"Let's just say that I had a personal interest in House Stark. Lend me your dagger."

Arya took the knife from its sheath and handed it to him, Gendry took it from her and made a cut on his left palm. He immediately let the blood pour onto the ore.

"If there is magic in my blood, if there is something in it we still don't understand or even if this is merely a stupid costume, what's the harm in trying?"

Arya took the dagger back from where he had set it on the table and used it to slash her own right hand, mimicking the same actions Gendry had just performed. He eyed her curiously, as she let her own blood sprinkle the ore he had already anointed with his.

She read the question in his eyes, "you said there is more magic in my veins. If there is any truth in this poppycock, let's go for broke."

4

In the end, she didn't end up looking for a place to stay. Every day she would go to the forge with Gendry, and she would help him for a few hours with the techniques that required two sets of hands. She also took over taking the metal wares Gendry made in his forge to the bazaar to sell and trade for food and first necessity items. At first, the merchants were wary of Arya, being obviously foreign and not knowing enough Qohorik to communicate. Still, Arya had always been good at socializing, and what she lacked in the natural ability to pick up new languages quickly, she made up in determination. 

She took to the local culture, changing her leather breeches and Westerosi linen tunics for airy, colorful ones and dresses, better suited for the climate, and loose enough to let her water dance. The first one to take her in at the market had been Umayma, the older tattooed woman who had blessed Gendry when she had handed him the cheese, the day they reunited. Arya had understood that for her, Gendry was pack, while Arya was an outsider, but then Gendry had taken her back to the market. He told Umayma of their friendship, prompting the motherly woman to take her under her wing.

Night after night, they shared Gendry's bed, sometimes talking late into the night, lying on their backs side by side, close but always making sure they were not touching. Neither of them would be able to pinpoint when it happened for the first time, but Gendry had taken to calling her Arry again, from time to time. Mostly at night in bed when they laughed until their bellies ached. 

"Will you ever go back?" She asked one night.

"Where? Westeros?"

"Storm's End."

"I don't know. Truly, I don't. I told Edric I would, but I didn't tell him when I was planning to return. How about you?"

"Where? Winterfell?"

"Aye. Or out to the sea?" He had been scared to ask what was really eating at his heart _'when will you leave me again?'_

"I don't truly know, it is not like there is a home waiting for me."

5

It must have been close to a moonturn into her stay when it happened. Arya couldn't say that she had never felt that before, all the way back to Braavos when she had been a blind beggar girl or a cockle seller. Men young and old, drunk or sober, finding the way to crowd her and rub themselves against her hips and backside, once or twice before she'd punch them, or maybe even a few times more when she allowed them to do so, to distract them before she gave them the gift from the many-faced god. 

She hadn't experienced it to happen quite like that though, going from a pleasant dream that bled into her waking hours, feeling embraced warm and lovingly by the same sturdy arms that had always tried to protect her, even when she was more than capable of doing so. Gendry's breath was on the back of her head, one leg snuggled in between hers, and an errant hand cupping her naked breast under her sleeping tunic. His breath was rhythmic, the rise and fall of his chest swaying her whole, like if she was still at sea, letting her know that he was still asleep. His hardness was rubbing deliciously against her backside. She let herself enjoy the moment, knowing that soon he'd wake up and pull away. She had no doubt that he desired her as a woman still, and that because he was asleep and she just happened to be so close by, his body was primed for taking her, but she was also intelligent enough to know that with what happened between them years before, wide-awake Gendry would not be so keen. He had learned, the hard way, that she was not the marrying type, and her rejection, all those years back, when he had thought she was someone else, had created a vast chasm between them. 

She knew that Gendry cared for her, maybe even loved her as his dear friend, but she wasn't the type of woman men loved romantically. She'd have to admit that when they had reunited in this strange city, she had wished for him to hold her in his arms, and she wouldn't have said no if he had taken her that first night on his bed. But he had been deadly against sharing a bed, acting more like a blushing maid than a man with far more experience in the bedroom than her. They were friends, nothing more. And in the end, she has been grateful that nothing had happened, because now she could say that they were back at being real friends, like they had been all those years before in the Riverlands, and not those strangers that had become lovers while they were facing death in the north, wearing the faces of the children they had been before. 

That morning, as he rubbed his hard cock against the roundness of her arse, and his callused thumb moved in circles over her stiff nipple, she felt herself getting wet, and she ached in between her legs, for the man who had made her a woman, in all the ways that mattered to men. At first, she had bitten her lip, trying to stay quiet, but after a while, she ceased to care, and she sighed and panted her desire. 

In the end, it had ended before it truly started, when he moaned her name into her hair, his voice low and gruff, and loud enough to wake himself. Soon enough, as she predicted, he pulled away, leaving her bereft, and both of them taking a moment to catch their breaths. 

"I'm sorry," he apologized, and his words brought burning tears to her eyes, "that wasn't… I shouldn't have… It's been a while…"

"You don't have to apologize," Arya said, without turning to face him.

"I do. I didn't mean to use you. It's just, I haven't had a chance, you know? On my own."

"Or privacy?" She asked, looking over her shoulder. 

Gendry simply nodded his face flushing bright red.

"You could—"

"Don't say it."

"I could leave."

Gendry laughed bitterly, "no, it's not that, you don't get it, you'd have to be—"

"A man?" She asked.

_'Me, and hopelessly in love with you,'_ he thought.

"Aye," was the only thing he said, dressing in haste and leaving for his forge.

6

It would take her another whole moonturn to ask a question that had been gnawing at her since the morning he had woken her by rubbing against her. She had come to his forge late in the day, as he was busy tidying up.

"Do you regret it?"

The question stopped him dead in his tracks. He could fool himself thinking she probably meant something else, but the question could only refer to one thing in particular.

"What do you mean?" He asked without turning to face her.

"What we did together, in Winterfell."

He turned immediately after that.

"I thought it was me who was supposed to be the stupid one."

"I'm not jesting. Do you regret bedding me?"

"No," he answered and sighed, looking at the tools in front of him. He then looked up and continued, "you gave me a beautiful gift, and I will treasure it to the end of my days."

"Maidenheads are useless and stupid. There is nothing beautiful about giving someone your maidenhead."

Gendry chuckled quietly at her words, "no, I mean, I'm honored you chose me for that, but that is not what I was referring to."

"What did you mean then?" She asked, with those wary grey eyes of hers.

"Being that close, finding pleasure together in the middle of all that death."

"We weren't friends then, were we? Not really."

"No, I don't think so," he admitted.

"I regret that."

"There was not enough time, we should have talked more."

"And fuck less?"

Gendry laughed out loud.

"I'm a man, Arya. I won't ever say that."

"What do you regret then?"

He had enough time to wonder. He had gone over every possible what-if scenario. Alternative universes where he never had a lordship forced on him, or where he had asked Arya to run away with him instead, playing at being outlaws. He had to consider the bad what-ifs as well. If he had not found her that night, if the dead had killed him instead, if he had gone to Winterfell to smith for her other brother.

Once you start the regret game, it never stops.

There was only one regret worth mentioning.

"Trying to make you into something you're not."

Arya had her own time to relive it all, during those long nights at sea. The one thing she had come to realize was that whatever she did, trying to be kind had cut deeper than any action she had ever done wanting to hurt.

"I knew you didn't mean it like that, and I still hurt you. I regret that."

"You don't have to apologize. You didn't owe me anything. Losing my friend a second time, that's what I regret."

"You haven't lost me."

"Promise me that then."

"What?"

"We won't ever stop being friends."

"We won't."

7

Arya didn't get to experience any animosity against them until close to three moon turns into her stay in Qohor. One night they had decided to go to a tavern to toast a rather successful development in Gendry's experimentation with a new smithing technique that produced a keen edge that was particularly lightweight. 

"I need you today," he had said as they were getting up from bed that morning. 

His words startled her, sparkling just the tiniest bit of hope inside her chest, and more than a flame elsewhere.

"I want you to test a sword after I'm done with it today. I think I may have something."

The sword was indeed something. It may not have had the water ripple pattern, but Arya liked how it felt in her left hand. While not a broadsword, it was significantly bigger than her Braavosi rapier. It was closer in size to a longsword, but she suspected Gendry had crafted it with someone of her own proportions in mind. The sword felt as light as _Needle_, despite the difference in size, and as she water danced with it, in the inner patio of his forge, cutting through air, building a melody as it slashed and pierced the wind, Arya understood what Gendry used to say about how he liked to make the steel sing. 

"What do you think?" He asked, highly invested in Arya's response. 

For a moment, he thought back of the night he presented her the dragonglass weapon he had made her. That one had been a commission, a utilitarian product, but this was something else. He could try to fool her and fool himself, saying that it was just a sword he had made trying to emulate Valyrian steel, that he hadn't forged it, despite its smaller size, with one particular warrior in mind. All of that would be bullshit, if he allowed himself enough time to dwell on it, he would have to admit that the thought and love that crafting that sword involved was no different from a maiden's laborious embroidering of a favor to gift to a jousting knight.

"She's a beauty."

"She is."

"And lethal."

"All beautiful things are, in my experience." 

Arya didn't have to look back to know that Gendry's eyes were on her, and she was thankful for that, for he wouldn't be able to see the effect of his words on her warm cheeks.

"It may not be Valyrian steel, but this is far better than anything I've ever seen forged in Westeros."

"She's yours."

"You can't," She replied, turning back abruptly.

"I made her, and I say she's yours."

"But this is your best work. I'm sure she could bring you a lot of coin."

"I didn't make her for coin, and besides, if I make a sword that good, I want the best warrior to wield her."

"Are you certain?"

"As death."

"Thank you."

"What will you name her?"

"I'm not sure. Maybe the smith can help me name her?"

"We'll need ale for that."

And that was how they ended up at Sefah's tavern, toasting a new sword and the method to produce it, to which Arya contributed by aiding Gendry with the intricate pulley system. 

"You could name it something Stark related."

"What? Like '_Winter_' or '_Wolf_'? Sounds wrong for Qohor," she declared, wrinkling her nose in a way that Gendry found cute.

"See, that is why smiths are not asked to name the swords, we work hard, and you highborn deal with the glory."

"What about something from your house instead?"

"'_Storm_'?"

"What about '_Fury_'?"

"It's your sword, don't ask me."

They both laughed for a minute, and sobering up, Gendry spoke.

"It has our blood, you know?"

"My sword?"

"Aye. That day, when I showed you my forge for the first time. The ore we poured our blood on. I melted it into ingots, and those were the ones I used for your sword."

"A sword with the combined magic of our houses?"

Gendry shook his head at that, "no, just a sword made with your blood and mine."

They had just stared at each other for a long time, both trying hard to find the right words to say when a man bumped against Gendry's shoulder and mumbled a word both Arya and Gendry heard perfectly clear.

_"Chuhat."_

It was a word Arya had learned early, walking the streets of Qohor, in particular whenever she walked by the butcher stall in the market. The fat man would yell it to the mangy dogs that were waiting for an opportunity, as soon as he looked away, to steal a piece of the still bloody cuts of meat. 

_"Ya tuur?"_ Gendry asked the man standing up, asking what his problem was.

_"Io tuur waya,"_ The man replied._'My problem is you.'_ It was an easy translation for Arya, _"Waya, e ya Westerosi katan akare."_

Gendry stood up immediate at the words. 

Arya may not have been fluent in Qohorik when she first arrived, but she knew many words, just as she knew many words in other Essosi languages. Some words she found were very common, they flowered out of men's mouths and spilled easily. Yes, the words for _'woman'_ and _'whore'_ were always among the first that Arya learned, watching men quarrel. Those, and the word for_ 'mother.'_ In Qohorik, the word for _'mother'_ was_ 'maat,'_ but it wouldn't be said there, she knew, the man in front of them was trying to hurt Gendry by offending a woman, but it wouldn't be his mother.   
  
"Let it go, Gendry. I don't care, I've been called worse."

But Gendry hadn't turned to face her. Instead, she continued eyeing the man who stood dangerously close to him. 

What had broken the tension had been Sefah's shrill voice, yelling in such speed that Arya hadn't been able to catch it all, besides a few words she knew for_ 'leave'_ and _'outside.'_

_"Waya nek Qohorik," _the man had yelled at Gendry, as he was ushered out of the tavern.

_"Io tahat Qohorik!" _Gendry had yelled back.

Gendry could not undo years of hatred towards his old master under the wrong impression that he had sold him as a piece of junk, but what he could do was claim him as the only father he ever had.

The mood had been soured after that, and they hadn't stayed long. They had been walking home in silence when suddenly, after turning into a dark street, they were no longer alone. The same man from Sefah's was there, now accompanied by two others. 

_"Chuhat," _the man said once more looking at Gendry, who, despite not having weapons on him, as Arya did, moved in front of her, to Arya's frustration. She made sure not to show it, though, and remained still, but her hand tightened around the pommel of her new and still unnamed sword.

_"Vaale kare!" _the man yelled to the other two, clearly referring to Arya.

At that, Arya moved from behind him, unsheathing her new sword and taking a fighting stance. Gendry would have preferred a hammer in his hand, but he was no stranger to fighting barehanded. 

Arya couldn't contain a smirk when the two men had charged, clearly underestimating her. She didn't even move until they had almost reached her. It was then when her elegant moment had graced the neck of one and then knocked the second with her sword's pommel. In the meantime, their leader had gone for Gendry with a knife, charging against him, but Gendry had dodged him and grabbed his wrist with his right hand, while his left forced his head down, pushing with both his arms down until he was kneeling.

As one of Arya's attackers was bent over, holding on to his bloodied nose, the other one had briefly wiped at the side of his face and then looked to the crimson on his hand. He had clearly not expected Arya to be a challenge to subdue, and thus they had gone for her empty-handed. Realizing his error, he reached for his pocket and produced a sizable knife, and then looked at Arya, expecting a reaction he would never get from her. The man with the bloodied cheek charged once more and Arya blocked his attack with her blade, which slid down and with a twirl, knocked the knife from his hand with the guard of her sword. He had then reached for her shoulder and pulled hard, ripping the sleeve from its seam. Arya took advantage of the distraction of the sound of ripping cloth and punched him hard on the face with the hilt, and as he bent down in pain, she kneed him in the groin. 

Gendry had also been distracted by the sound of Arya's tunic ripping, and once he was satisfied that she was in control of the situation, he used all his fury to punch his own attacker.

He quickly stood straight and turned towards Arya, seeing the torn tunic and the splatter of blood on her face. He reached her in two strides, taking her in his arms and turning her from side to side to look for wounds. 

"Are you hurt? Is this your blood?"

"I should be offended that you would think that."

He smiled and stared to her face, lovingly held in between his large hands. For a second, he stared at her lips, and Arya wondered if he'd kiss her, but instead, he hugged her once more with his lips pressed firmly against her forehead.

"Let's go home," he suggested, but instead, Arya walked to the man who had started it all and let the tip of the newly forged sword rest on the side of his neck.

_"Vekore oe, e waya temor."_

She punctuated her promise by pressing on her blade to paint his neck with one bright drop of blood.

She had turned back to him then and said, "_Fury_, her name is _Fury_."

After that, they walked home in silence, Gendry turning to look at her constantly.

"You do remember we have faced worst threats than that, don't you?"

“You shouldn't be attacked because of me.”

“Since when is an attack on one of us not an attack to both?”

That night, when they had gone to bed, and Arya had turned to face the wall, she felt herself be pulled until her back was against his chest, and his face was buried in her wild hair. Gendry didn't care what it looked like, or that up to that moment they had barely touched, at least while awake and conscious of their acts. He wanted to fall asleep with her in his arms and pretend that they had never parted, that they were still somewhere along the King's Road. 

Arya had other ideas though, her heart ached at the emotion with which he held on to her, the way he had searched over her skin, trying to find a wound. She turned, so she was facing him, and she pushed herself up until her lips could reach his, and kissed him the way she had not kissed him their first time. She kissed him like she may have if she had had a chance when she was twelve and first flowered, and he was still the first love of a girl who was no longer a child. He stayed still, while her lips nipped carefully on his own, and though the kiss grew, it remained soft. Soon, his lips parted, he pulled her bottom lip with his teeth, and something sparked in him. He raised himself over his palms until he was on top of her, and he kissed her passionately until he had her whimpering. His mouth searched down her throat, and when it reached in between her breasts, still covered by her tunic, he stopped and buried his face there. 

"I don't want you like this.”

His words broke her, and her eyes closed to try to stop the sting. Arya felt as if something had reached inside her and ripped her voice away.

As he pulled up and saw the pain in her face, he realized his mistake. 

"Open your eyes."

She obeyed and opened them to see his concern.

"What I meant to say is that I don't want you because the world is ending, I don't want to have you because we may only have only one night left, and we are homesick for the time when we had nothing but each other. While you are offering me everything I want tonight and more, I can't."

Arya motioned to turn back to her side, but Gendry stopped her by the waist. 

“Stay with me, please.”

She ought to have felt rejected, to feel compelled to flee and never look back, but she didn’t. She wanted to feel rooted to that man and that bed, to find comfort in his arms for the same heartache he had caused.

After that night, they went to sleep in each other’s arms, without even a pretense. Night in and night out, they’d get ready for bed, and Gendry would hold the thin sheet up for her to find her place against him. Some days Arya would be the one wrapped around his back and other ones, her head resting on his side, with her hand over his torso and falling by his side. 

8

"Have you heard what they call me?" She asked him one day as she was setting the food in front of them.

"Who?"

"The Qohorik, when I go to the market, what they whisper when I walk by."

"What do they call you?"

_"Akare zu piektehere. _The woman of the smith. The blacksmith's woman. That's what they use to refer to me."

"I'm sorry," he said, looking down.

"Why? I know it is not you calling me that."

"Still. The implication."

"Makes sense, though," she declared, and her eyes looked to him, like all the other times when she was little, and she'd share an idea with him, a wondrous crazy idea.

"How?"

"They see us together, I stay at your place."

"It would be an understandable assumption for someone who doesn't know you are just a friend staying over."

"I once was, though."

That line had made his heart skip a beat. 

"Not really, you were never mine, Arya."

"But you wanted me to be."

"I did, it's true. But only because I was already yours."

It was her turn to remain speechless, and she thought of their recent past.

She had been the one to seek him out that night, even if he had come to her to give her the weapon. She had convinced herself that the feelings he provoked in her were just her body waking up and feeling interested in a well-formed man for the first time. It had been easy to make up her mind, to have him on their very last night, with the excuse of knowing what fucking was really all about before death. She had bought it, that it was easy to choose him, because one day she had trusted him with her name and her life, and so, she could trust him with her body. 

She had chosen to avoid the thoughts, the feelings she had started feeling for him just before flowering, when she'd spend hours staring at him smithing bare-chested in Harrenhal, and then that had blossomed anew when she found him again in her ancestral home, of all places. 

That night she asked him about the red woman, and she was thankful that he didn’t notice the jealousy she hadn’t planned to imprint in her words. Her pride had her don a mask of confidence in contrast with how emotional she had been trying to convince him, right before they parted, to stay with her. She had played the game of faces with him, and it had been easy to make him trip over his words. He couldn’t tell how fast her heart was beating or how her hands would tremble if she tried to still them for a second. The Waif would have smacked her, for the nervous way she had swallowed when she offered herself to him.

It had been awkward at moments, and painful, but Gendry had known at least enough to get her to relax and even how to bring her some pleasure with his fingers. What had overwhelmed her was his eyes locking with hers as his cock was deeply buried in her sheath, and she felt him looking into her very soul. 

They had fucked one more time that night, right before the horns sounded, and a few more times, here and there after the battle and before that disastrous feast.

Never once she had considered, that once he had asked her to be his wife, he hadn't meant just for her to be his, but that he would be hers.

9

“Have you ever looked at Umayma's face markings?” She asked him one afternoon.

"Her tattoos? They're a bit hard to miss.”

"Is that what they're called?"

“Yes, they're from her people, they live up in the forest of Qohor.”

“I asked her what they meant, you know?"

“What did she say?"

_“Se.”_

“Me?”

“Her people, they don't follow the Black Goat, they go into the wild for three days, and they pray for the gods of the forest, of the night, and of the wild, to show them who they are, and then, when they know for sure, they mark their bodies with the answer.”

“What do hers mean?”

“I don't know, and don't you go asking. The meaning is supposed to be for her alone. But you're missing the point.”

"What is the point?”

“Knowing who you are," she replied, and the intensity in her grey eyes let him know what that meant to her, "when I was with the House of Black and White, I was supposed to give up everything that made me Arya Stark. I was to become No One, but I failed."

“How?”

“I kept thinking of Needle and Jon and my family… and you.”

“You thought of me?" He had never considered the possibility of him being in her thoughts during their time apart, "despite me abandoning you?”

“I may have been mad at you, but you were still my pack.”

“I never told you I regretted that decision.”

“We all have regrets. Anyways, that's not why I brought it up.”

"Then, why?”

“Umayma's tattoos. I want that."

“On your face?”

“Don’t be stupid. That's not what I meant. I want to go out there, to the forest of Qohor, and find out who I am and have that marked on my body forever, so I won't ever forget.”

He suddenly understood what she was saying.

“When are you leaving?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Will you be back?”

“Don’t look at me like that. It's only a few days, and then I'm coming home.”

_’Home.’_

She had called his place home.

Four moon turns into appearing on his path, Arya Stark bid him farewell and left with Umayma to head out of the walls of the city.

The first night he kept waking up because their bed felt lonely without her. The thought both surprised and scared him. When had his bed become_ 'their bed'_ and his home_ 'their home'_?

Two years he worked non stop at Storm’s End, making sure to go to bed half dead from his labor so not to miss her. Then he had come to Qohor, and his loneliness ached a little less, though the memory of her would still get him to take himself in hand sometimes. One more year he had spent in Tobho’s land before she had been there, messing his world in such a wonderful way.

The third night he had touched himself furiously, on her side of the bed, with his head on her pillow. All the repressed want had been spent, but it had been followed by self-loathe. 

The fifth night he was hopeful, thinking she’d be back soon, and then terrified that she’d never return, this time for good. 

But she did return. It had been while Gendry was polishing a sword. He hadn’t heard her come in, but he did feel her arms wrapping around his torso. He had turned and embraced her fully, holding her tight, and she had whimpered and pushed him away. 

“Sorry, it still hurts a bit.”

Gendry couldn’t see where she had been marked, but she was smiling with an abandon he hadn’t witnessed since a lifetime ago when they hadn’t learned yet to hurt each other. 

That night when she lay down on her side in front of him, she didn't feel him pulling her against him, and so she turned back to see uneasiness in his features.

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You never do, not on purpose."

"Show me where it is safe to touch you."

She simply scooted closer to him, took his hand in hers, and wrapped it around her middle. 

Arya was surprised he hadn't asked about the ritual and the markings. Besides worrying not to put pressure on the place where her skin still hurt, he hadn't even asked where she had chosen to have an indelible reminder that she would never be No One. She had been marked before, her body a map of her eventful life, but these marks, the marks of Arya Stark, she had done deliberately, and the thin black lines were as loud as her voice had been, beckoned by Umayma, to yell to the gods and goddesses of the wind and the trees that she knew who she was. 

Something inside her told her that he was bound to find her markings one day, or night, to read on her skin that she had found in her heart a way to love herself, when before it had only had room for him. 

10

It took him a whole fortnight to tell her about the days she was gone. 

"You broke my bed."

"The bed is perfectly fine," she said, looking at it, and even sitting at the end for good measure.

"It's not."

"Are you being stupid?" She asked, looking up at him.

"When I came here," he said as he sat next to her, "I decided the only thing I was going to splurge in was a good bed. It is not a featherbed, but it's bigger than just enough for me."

"Makes sense, you're too big."

"I am," he said, smirking, "I wanted a comfortable place that was mine, and then you came along."

"And how could I have possibly broken your bed? I don't weigh anything compared to you."

"You broke it," he doubled down.

"How?" She asked once more, eyebrows knitted.

He inhaled deeply and turned to face her, knowing full well he needed to say what he had been keeping to himself.

"You left, and I couldn't sleep in it at all. I've realized it is no longer my bed; it's ours. You're right, you didn't break the stupid bed, you broke me. I can't sleep without you."

"Is that a terrible thing?" She asked, looking at him with the softest of eyes.

"It is if you're planning on leaving."

There it was, out in the open.

"Why would I leave my home when I finally fount it?"

"I would never have thought Qohor would turn out to be your home."

"I don't give a damn about Qohor! That's not what I meant."

"What's your home then?"

"You."

Arya wondered if she had broken Gendry. He sat there looking at her like an idiot. She gave him time, though, let him speak when he was ready.

"What if you need to leave?"

"Then, I will be taking you with me, stupid."

He pulled her in his arms then, and Arya let him place her astride on his lap. She quickly wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him slowly. 

They kissed like that for a while, his hand tangling in her hair, and hers rubbing his short beard. 

They separated to catch their breaths, still with eyes closed and leaning against each other's forehead. It was then that a thought occurred to Arya, of the things he yet didn't know.

"I love you," she said against his lips.

"Truly?" He asked.

She opened her eyes and waited for him to do the same. 

"Aye. I love you. I loved you before, and I love you still. But more than that, I am in love with you."

He then kissed her passionately, his hands going under her tunic and holding her tight against his chest. His kisses wandered off, to her jaw, and then further, until his lips were against her ear.

"I'd like to make love to you now if you'll have me."

She only smiled and nodded, prompting him to shift them quickly, to lay her down on their bed.

The handful of times they had lain together in Winterfell had been fucking, some times passionately, some times softly, but fucking none the less. There hadn't been time for much, and Gendry hadn't been proud to the fact that some of those times they hadn't even had time to properly disrobe, they had only managed to get a few minutes alone to lower their breeches, and bent Arya over a table or have a romp among the ruins of the First Keep. Only one night they had spent together on a proper bed, her own childhood featherbed, as a matter of fact, but they hadn't even had time to bask in the afterglow when a servant girl had brought her Sansa's summons. 

This time they had all the time in the world, a bed that was theirs even if it wasn't filled with feathers, and the certainty that what they felt for each other was love. 

Their first time they had undressed in haste, but this time they had done it slowly. Gendry had sat on his heels to let Arya sit up and take her tunic off. His eyes had landed on the symbols just above her left breast, where her heart should be. Arya thought then how the first time she had bared her tits to him he had stared at her scars, and now, with her chest naked and heaving, he didn't seem to look at anything else, but the silhouettes of two animal heads side by side, guarding each other's backs.

"What do you think?"

"Is this a bull?" He asked, cupping the breast but rubbing the markings with his thumb.

"Yes."

"I understand the direwolf, but the bull? I thought the markings were supposed to be your identity. Why would you mark yourself with yours and mine?" He said, looking up.

"Because you're mine and I am yours," Arya explained, making sure they were looking into each other's eyes as she spoke.

He kissed her then with renewed passion, as they finished the task of shedding their clothing. Once bare, they lay back down, molding their bodies together. 

"Why does this feel like a first time?" She asked, "it's not new between us."

"Maybe it is, in a way," he said into her neck.

"Because we're in love this time?"

"It may have been just fucking in the past, but there was love, some version of love."

"Then what is it?" She asked once more, against his lips.

"We're making promises."

They took time then to recognize their bodies, to caress and lick every inch, to explore plains, hills, and the springs where water was born. They explored their bodies as if they were new and unknown lands, and they marked each other with kisses and moans, claiming each place with a sigh of their names. 

Having Gendry fill her, more than three years since the last time he had done so, made her feel whole, as yelling who she was to the spirits of the forest had felt a fortnight before.

"Arya, love," he panted to her shoulder, while she ran her fingers over his short coal hair.

"You're making love to your woman," she said, turning her lips to his ear.

He pulled back enough to look at her, with his mouth so close to hers. He then retreated and sheathed himself again. 

"Am I your man?"

"Aye, and my best friend."

He felt his need to worship her double, and despite how exquisite she felt, he pulled out, he didn't give her enough time to complain, because he soon tasted them both with his tongue, determined not to bury himself in her until he felt her peak at least once against his mouth. 

He was more than pleased when he heard his name moaned as she had her release. He climbed back, parting her legs and setting them over his hips as he kissed this way up. 

"You never did that before," she said sluggishly.

"I never had the time before, why? Did you like it?"

"I think you know how grateful I feel."

"Grateful enough to let me ravish you now?"

Instead of answering, she reached in between them to take him in her hand, exploring his weight and girth, and guiding him into her warmth. This time may not have been as extraneous or impressive as their first time, with Arya riding him, but it was intimate as that time had not. Gendry grabbed her right leg by her thigh, and raised it, allowing him to reach deeper, and making the sensations feel more intense. Hoping to have her moan his name just one more time before he let himself go, he searched for her little bud with his thumb, finding first the place where they were coupled and then the bundle of nerves, beckoning her to let herself fall once more. He didn't quite make it before, but the feeling of his release, the sound of her name in his lips, and the frantic circles he was tracing on her, pushed her to peak for a second time. 

They panted until their heartbeats calmed, and they caught their breath, and once they looked at each other, they had been unable to stop grinning. 

"Did we just.. Are we…?"

"As good as married? I think so," she replied. 

"Good."

"If we go back to Westeros, I'd like to make it official."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"You know that marriage, between you and me, we can decide what we want it to be."

"I like that."

He then took the time to trace the lines of the markings above her breast. 

"I want to get my own markings."

"A stag and a direwolf?"

"No, a direwolf and a bull. You're not marrying a stag, you're marrying a bull."

"_My bull,_" Arya said tasting, the words in her mouth.

"Yours, I like that," was all Gendry had to say.

**Author's Note:**

> Did you like it? 
> 
> Hope you did, if you can leave a comment, I'll really appreciate it.
> 
> Translations:
> 
> Al-nek: Or not  
Chuhat: Dog  
Ya tuur?: Your problem?  
Io tuur waya: My problem is you.  
Waya, e ya Westerosi katan akare: You, and your Westerosi whore woman  
Waya nek Qohorik: You are not Qohorik  
Io tahat Qohorik!: My father was Qohorik!  
Vaale kare: Take her  
Akare zu piektehere: Woman of the smith  
Vekore oe, e waya temor: Come back to us and you die  
Se: I/Me


End file.
